


Takeoff

by The_Last_Kenobi



Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton
Genre: Gen, Kidnapping, Not Canon Compliant, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26824333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Last_Kenobi/pseuds/The_Last_Kenobi
Summary: The Jinn/Kenobi Team was deployed on a very simple mission to a very peaceful planet. They were a new team, after all. It was just a couple of days - nothing was supposed to happen.He only looked away for a minute.Written for Whumptober 2020Day 2 - Kidnapped
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956463
Comments: 42
Kudos: 189





	1. Chapter 1

Qui-Gon glanced over his shoulder again at his young apprentice.

Obi-Wan was a little ways behind the Master, in conversation with one of the local marketers, smiling up at the woman, who was positively beaming back. Qui-Gon stifled a laugh. Even with only four months of partnership, it had become obvious that it wasn’t only Jinn who found the boy sweet, charming.

It was that charm that had helped soften Qui-Gon, who had been frozen for eight solid years after…Xanatos.

The name still sent a pang deep inside him.

Qui-Gon let his smile fade and he turned back to the bustling market, and the booth of regional fruits and baked goods spread before him.

Away from Obi-Wan.

Orinda was a human-settled planet with a wide range of climates and types of settlements, and the Jedi were enjoying their brief mission to one of the southern villages. Tomorrow they would have to leave back to Coruscant, but for today, they could explore and enjoy the weather and the welcoming people.

Qui-Gon examined a cluster of bright yellow fruit each half the size of his palm and as shiny and smooth as glass. “What are these?” he asked the booth tender.

The man brightened. “Ah, those are _bulgossom_ ,” he said enthusiastically. “Tart, but not sour. They have a very brief shelf life, but they’re delicious, with the added bonus of health benefits—spacers often carry them or dry and can them; they make up for lack of sunlight and natural water.”

“Interesting,” said Qui-Gon. “How much?”

He picked up the fruit.

And immediately dropped it.

Qui-Gon whirled around, his heart in his throat, every instinct in him _screaming_ , his so-very-young training bond with his Padawan blazing with fear.

“Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan!”

Qui-Gon raced back the way he had come, towards the handmade trinket stand where the boy had been standing. The woman was still there, now occupied with a mother and her two young girls, and Obi-Wan was nowhere to be seen.

He cast out his senses, trying to find where his apprentice had gone, but even as he did, the overwhelming panic on the other end of the bond began to dull and then fade away—but in a strangled, unnatural way that told him Obi-Wan was slipping into unconsciousness.

“Obi-Wan!” he cried again, racing farther up the road, turning his head to look up every side street.

His connection to the boy was getting thinner and thinner—

It shrank to a tiny, fragile thread.

And then that thread started to stretch, and stretch, and stretch, getting thinner and thinner—

Qui-Gon bolted towards the nearest landing deck, but the Master already knew he was going to be too late.

Someone had taken his Padawan into hyperspace.

Their bond was not strong enough to guide him with that much distance between them, and unless someone had seen the ship in question…he was gone. A billion, trillion star systems where they could be going, and every second lessened the chances of seeing him again, _ever_ \- dwindled to nothing.

Qui-Gon stopped on the landing deck, clustered with a scant few ships, including their own.

No one was around, and there were no ships in the sky.

“ _Obi-Wan!_ ” he screamed uselessly.

* * *

Obi-Wan sobbed, the sounds muffled by the dirty strip of cloth that had been tied roughly around his head and between his teeth. His wrists and ankles were bound painfully to each other and then to the creaky bed he had been tossed on to.

He was on an unknown spacecraft, heading stars knew where, and he could feel the drugs in his system dragging him into unconsciousness.

Stupid. He was so stupid!

Worthless.

Only he could fight so hard to become a Jedi Padawan only to get himself kidnapped off a peaceful street on a peaceful mission with his Master just around the corner.

Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan felt a few tears slip out, but things were getting very hazy now, and even the fear was getting foggy.

He wondered, in a vague sort of way, if his Master would be disappointed at him for not being able to defend himself against a couple of slavers—because that was definitely who these people were.

Maybe, Obi-Wan thought distantly, watching with fascination as his vision began to darken, maybe Qui-Gon would be relieved to have the unwanted apprentice off his hands.

Everything dwindled away to blackness, and the ship vanished into the depths of hyperspace, carrying one frightened little boy away into the unknown, and leaving one helpless Jedi Master alone on a landing strip, his screams down a fading bond going utterly unheard.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You asked, and the plot bunnies asked, and so here we are.

Obi-Wan was sore all over.

His head was loopy, spinning, and he knew it. They’d been repeatedly drugging him ever since they’d snatched him off the side street, and he was pretty sure they’d increased the dosage when they had discovered he was a Jedi.

There was something _more_ he should be getting out of that realization, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t figure it out.

His mind kept slipping away from the problem, like water falling between his fingers as he tried to hold it.

And he kept falling asleep, all the time.

Obi-Wan hated falling asleep.

When he was asleep he couldn’t even tell what was happening, or hear things his captors said, or judge time.

And when he was asleep he dreamed about Bandoomer and Orinda.

_He had just turned away from the lady at the trinket shop when he saw it._

_Him—Qui-Gon. Walking very deliberately away. When Obi-Wan reached out along the bond, he found walls and a subtle chill that told him very clearly to go away._

_Obi-Wan did._

_He wandered past the trinket stand and towards the next, passing an alley to get there—and down the alley, he saw a child crying. Instinct drove him, and he darted into the alley, projecting comfort into the Force. Even a non-Force-sensitive would still pick up the aura._

_Except he was so focused on radiating warmth and peace and ignoring the iced out bond that he was completely unprepared for the strong arm that whipped out of a doorway and wrapped around his chest, yanking him forcefully into the darkened building. Another hand clapped over his mouth and squeezed, forcing his jaw painfully shut, and then the door was kicked closed and everything that came next happened quickly and in the shadows._

_Obi-Wan fought, landing a neat kick between his captor’s legs._

_There was a groan of pain and he was dropped. Obi-Wan kicked out again, and the man toppled over—before the apprentice could stand, someone else had snatched him up and threw him face-first into a wall._

_An explosion of pain and dizziness._

_When he came back to himself, a hand was forcing his lips apart and shoving a rag between his teeth, another was jamming a needle into his upper arm, and then he was flung unceremoniously over someone’s shoulder and they were off._

_These people, whoever they were, were prepared._

_Their ship was close, fueled, and lifting off as soon as their feet touched the ramp._

_He was thrown onto a cot, and just as he began to struggle again, his wrists and ankles were caught by the two attackers, and he was tied to the bed._

_Obi-Wan closed his eyes and thought of Qui-Gon, but the only image he could conjure up was of the tall man’s back to him, walking ever so steadily away, infinitely away, into shadows, and Obi-Wan was left alone._

Obi-Wan woke up this time with a terrible headache and eyes that stung with dryness.

He supposed he must have cried himself out.

Like an untrained youngling, not a Jedi Padawan.

Before he passed out yet again, he realized that he wasn’t a Padawan or a Jedi any more, and so the rules were quite possibly different.

* * *

Qui-Gon switched off the comm unit.

He had left Yoda a holo-recording informing him of the abduction, but from now on, he would be out of contact. If the Council had relevant information, Yoda would find a way to contact him, but if Qui-Gon wanted to pursue his child freely without interference, he would have to play on plausible deniability.

The Council couldn’t punish him for ignoring orders if he never heard them in the first place.

The towering Master clutched his ship’s controls and lifted off Orinda, feeling his heart still thundering out of control.

If he allowed his focus to slip, his hands would start to shake, uncontrollably.

And he couldn’t afford any mistakes right now.

Qui-Gon entered the coordinates for Nar Shaddaa into the navcom and engaged the hyperdrive.

He was going to find his Padawan, and if he had to turn every slaving ring inside out to do it, _then it would get done_.

* * *

This time, when Obi-Wan awoke, he was no longer on the ship.

He was on a much harder, colder surface, and now in addition to the binding on his wrists and ankles and the gag, he was also bound at the knees and blindfolded.

He was drug-addled and sore from not being allowed to move or walk for only Force knew how long.

But he heard three voices speaking—two were his captors, and the third was new.

“—found a lightsaber on him,” one of his abductors was saying furiously. “We didn’t know it when we picked him up. He didn’t fight like a Jedi type.”

Shame flooded Obi-Wan again.

No, he hadn’t. He’d barely fought at all.

“What did you do with the weapon?” the third voice asked.

“It’s right here.” That was the second kidnapper.

There was a rustling noise and then a pause.

And then there was such a nightmarish cacophony that Obi-Wan could hardly believe it. There was the sound of a scuffle, a scream, and then the _thrum_ of a lightsaber igniting, his lightsaber, followed by the sound of imperfect saber swings, terrible thudding noises and shrieking, and then silence.

The lightsaber was extinguished.

Obi-Wan was shaking.

Someone had just used his lightsaber to kill. In cold blood. He’d allowed his weapon to be used for _murder_.

That same someone stooped down in front of him and touched his cheek in a caress that had the boy shuddering with revulsion.

The man clucked his teeth and sighed patronizingly. “Oh, little one,” he said, in a mockery of the name Qui-Gon liked to use for him. “The stars have given me a gift today. Those fools, they didn’t know what they were dealing with. But I? I know _exactly_ what to do with you.”

Another needle bit into his flesh, but this time it was _different_.

This time, it took the Force away, and it left him conscious. And that was worse. It was much, much worse.

Strong arms scooped him up like a child and carried him away, and Obi-Wan shivered with shock and the spiraling emptiness inside him, and didn’t care that he was once again sobbing into the gag between his teeth.


	3. Chapter 3

Qui-Gon casually pressed a handful of credits into the hand of a man passing by.

In return, he felt something slip into his pocket, and then the man was gone and Qui-Gon ducked into a dark corner to examine his reward.

It was a scrap of flimsi with a name and address.

With a small gesture and a tug on the Force, the flimsi burst into flames, and the rogue Jedi Master let it fall from between his fingers. By the time his cloak vanished around the next corner, there was nothing remaining of the transaction but a puff of ash on the ground.

The words scrawled hastily were imprinted in Qui-Gon’s mind.

_You’re looking for Fett. Fifth street, tallest building, third floor._

* * *

Obi-Wan raised his head, his expression blank.

His new abductor scoffed at the façade and snatched Obi-Wan’s hair painfully, dragging his head further backwards. The man’s face was concealed behind a helmet that he had yet to remove.

“Listen, kid,” the man said coldly. “I’ve spent years of my life training to handle you karking Force-sensitives, even Jedi. _Especially_ Jedi. You can cooperate now, or I can train you to cooperate so that you don’t know how to do anything else _but_ obey. Do you understand?”

Obi-Wan stared back in silence, the only defiance he was currently capable of.

His hands were still bound behind his back, but everything else was free—and more worryingly, the drugs were being allowed to run their course. He had not been injected again.

In another scenario, that might have given him hope.

But this man—this man made him sure that if we was being allowed to use the Force, it wouldn’t be in any way that let him escape.

This man had already used his lightsaber—his handmade, personally constructed, sacred weapon—to murder two strangers.

What could he do with a captive former Jedi?

Obi-Wan didn’t want to know.

The man tightened his hand painfully in the short copper-blonde hair. “I said. Do. You. Understand?”

After a moment, Obi-Wan nodded.

He couldn’t see his face, but Obi-Wan could sense the man was smiling. Not a friendly smile.

“Very good, brat,” he said in a false, mocking croon. “I think a good place to start is always fear. They say that fear is the first instinct that we learn, the one that keeps you alive, keeps you smart. What you need to be afraid of…” the man suddenly switched his grip from the top of the Padawan’s head to his short braid and pulled on it so hard that the boy was hauled to his feet with an involuntary shriek of pain. “…is me. Let’s begin there.”

Unexpectedly, he reached behind Obi-Wan and cut through the ropes binding his wrists.

“Let’s see what you’ve got in you, my poor, drugged up little brat.” And he swung a blow at the Padawan’s unprotected stomach.

Obi-Wan Kenobi had never begged in his life.

By dawn the next morning, he’d screamed for the man to stop so many times that his voice was almost gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Obi-Wan had been with his third and final captor for two weeks.

He had been taken from Orinda two-and-a-half weeks ago.

And he only knew that because yesterday he had caught a glimpse of a chrono with the time and date, and despite the thrashing he received for overstepping his bounds, he was grateful for the knowledge.

Somehow.

For some reason, it gave him hope.

Two and a half weeks? That was nothing.

(It was everything; he was sore and black-and-blue and more terrified than he’d been in his life.)

If Qui-Gon was searching for him…if…

Obi-Wan discarded the thought.

He would get himself out.

If his _handler_ , as he referred to himself, didn’t kill him first.

That was a distinct possibility.

Obi-Wan pulled himself to his feet again under the man’s sneering gaze, watching as his own lightsaber was twirled—clumsily—by his abductor and a murderer. This was the exercise, every day: handle a brutal assault and try to fend the man off using both the Force and his own strength, and then duel the man while he had Obi-Wan’s lightsaber and Obi-Wan had nothing but his bare hands.

Obi-Wan began to pace a slow circle around his opponent, searching for a weakness.

His handler laughed. “I told you. I’ve faced too many Jedi, little bratling, to be caught off guard by you. I’ve _killed_ too many Jedi for that.”

* * *

Qui-Gon hesitated outside the door.

He had abandoned his traditional Jedi clothing, opting for a plain tunic and trousers and a long hooded coat that made him a little less obviously…Jedi.

The door swung open before he even considered knocking, and he found himself face to face with a hard-faced, dark-eyed man about half his age, glowering at him from behind a blaster barrel.

Qui-Gon held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

The man snarled. “You may have hidden that sword of yours, but I know a _jetii_ when I see one. Give me one fucking reason not to end you while I have the chance.”

“I know you have no interest in helping my kind,” the Jedi said quickly, keeping his hands in the air as he spoke. “But I need your assistance. I hear you’re the person to talk to when it comes to getting on the inside of the slave trade—I know you have your grudges against slavers, as well. Please. I need to get someone out.”

Jango Fett’s stony expression twisted ever so slightly.

It was clear that he was torn between his two instincts, which were currently at war for the first time: his desire to punish the entire Jedi Order, and his wish to exterminate slavers from the face of the galaxy.

The blaster did not waver, however.

“How did you find me?” Fett said abruptly. “How long did it take you?”

“Almost three weeks. The average Jedi would not have been able to do so as quickly,” Qui-Gon added hastily when Fett’s eyes narrowed in alarm. “I happen to have contacts in Hutt Space and in what you might consider Coruscant’s underbelly. I called in a few favors.”

“Desperate, aren’t you?” the Mandalorian asked coolly, looking almost—faintly—amused. “Lose a Core politician or something?”

That amusement went out like a doused flame when Qui-Gon closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to get the hard lump out of his throat before he spoke. “...No. My apprentice.”

And _there_ it was, the last instinct Qui-Gon had been relying on, the one thing any decent Mandalorian would swear to, would kill and die for—it was embedded in their culture, their code and creed, and the former Mand’alor himself would be the last person to forget—

Children were sacred.

A child in danger, no matter how young or old, no matter what clan or species they belonged to, was a child any good Mandalorian would aid.

Qui-Gon felt his heart soar as Jango’s eyes flashed with some inner tempest.

It was obvious even before he spoke again that he had made up his mind; Fett slowly lowered the blaster from Qui-Gon’s face to a slightly less threatening position at Fett’s hip, the point aimed at Qui-Gon’s stomach, and then he stepped aside to allow a Jedi Master into his current home. “Tell me everything,” said Jango.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking two, maybe three more chapters?


	5. Chapter 5

“Your ship good to travel right away?” Jango asked brusquely.

He was standing in the doorway, as stiff as he always had been around Qui-Gon Jinn in the past two weeks.

The Jedi Master looked up from the datapad he had been scrolling through, searching for any possible leads. “Yes,” he said quickly. “Why?”

Fett barely restrained an eyeroll. “The last of the contacts I reached out to just got back to me. None of the factions they looked into have acquired a Force-sensitive child in the last several months, much less a stolen _jetii adiik_. None of them have a youth that fits the description, either.”

Qui-Gon’s stomach flipped over. Obi-Wan had been gone for over five standard weeks now, and only the fact that Jango clearly wanted to go somewhere kept the Master from sliding once again into fear.

“But?” he asked quietly.

“Well, sometimes they conceal high-value slaves from prying eyes, so they can take them directly to the rich and powerful who have…specific requests…” Jango said, tactless but looking a little regretful as he saw whatever expression was on the Jedi’s face—Qui-Gon didn’t know, but by the weird tingling in his fingers and legs and the coldness in his stomach, he suspected he looked _not well_. “And that’s possible in your _be’ad_ case. But remember what we discussed about Orinda?”

The Master nodded, setting the datapad aside and forcing himself to focus. “…Yes. Remote, untroubled; the southern sector where we were is comprised of small villages where the townsfolk all know one another.”

Jango nodded. “Yes. Any slavers there would have to be either desperate loners, probably traitors to their former bosses, or members of a larger group on their way to an arranged meeting or a home base,” he reminded him. “I’d say five or six crew members at most, likely less to go unnoticed in the area you described.”

Qui-Gon nodded.

He didn’t think he would ever forgive himself for how quickly it had all happened, how easily they had snatched Obi-Wan from under his care simply because he walked a street away.

Because he turned his back, thinking of a very different Padawan.

Obi-Wan had been so _afraid_.

And then gone.

“At this point, I’m guessing a splinter group had hold of him. Judging by what you said, it doesn’t sound like they were targeting you specifically, which means—”

“They didn’t know they had a Jedi on their hands,” realized Qui-Gon. “They just wanted _someone_ , probably a youth.”

An ugly look flashed across the Mando’s face. “Yeah. So. They probably figured it out pretty quickly, and most slavers without a strong backing would either have…gotten rid of the cargo, or passed them off to someone who had experience.”

Gotten rid of.

 _No_ , Obi-Wan was alive—he would have felt it if he had died—if the bond was gone forever—

Wouldn’t he?

“And?” Qui-Gon heard himself ask.

“And if they did turn to someone for help, I can think of only a handful who aren’t connected to the Hutts or Zyggerians, who unattached slavers would think safer to approach. And out of that handful? Only two have been anywhere in this region recently. I found one on Desevro, in the Outer Rim.”

 _Desevro_.

And every nerve in Qui-Gon Jinn’s body _burned_ as he pounced on this new purpose that Jango Fett had just given him.

* * *

Obi-Wan choked for air, clutching his throat.

The man before him laughed and laughed, swinging Obi-Wan’s lightsaber lazily at one side, his other hand stretched out, holding the boy aloft in midair.

Until mere days ago, Obi-Wan had never felt the Force being used against him—not like this.

In the Temple it was always training, and with Xanatos—

The man’s attack had been so quick, so brutal, the boy had barely had a chance to understand what was happening.

But his handler had been leveraging the Force on him for over a week now.

At first it had been a shock.

Now, it was an expected part of his day.

Every nerve in Obi-Wan’s body _burned_ with fear, with the rawness of being physically and mentally attacked constantly for weeks on end, and even when he was alone, he kept his Force signature clamped down tight and his senses outstretched—hiding himself in the Force, in vain, and keeping all his senses on high alert for whenever the vile Force-sensitive handler approached.

Just as his vision began to darken, he was dropped carelessly to the floor.

Obi-Wan forced himself to sit up, even though he couldn’t see, knowing that a display of weakness would be punished.

The handler ruffled his hair gently and crooned in a false tone, “There now, little one. You’re learning so well. Now. Take up the knife again. We’re doing the blindfolded exercise again today, and _little one…_ ” a gentle stroke to the top of his head, “…if you can’t _kill_ whatever life form I hide for you to hunt down this time, I will be forced to reeducate you in pain. _Again_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end! Two chapters to go.


	6. Chapter 6

Obi-Wan shook his head, wanting to protest, but only able to give out dry rasping cries through his parched—and bruised—throat.

His handler growled up at him. “Do it!”

Obi-Wan shook his head harder.

But he didn’t remove his hands from the handler’s throat, where he was pinning the man to the floor with his body and the Force, slowly pressing down on his lungs.

The man barked out a laugh, masked as always behind his T-visor helmet. “Oh, _little one_ —come on.”

_No._

“ _Do it!_ ” his handler screamed.

Obi-Wan panicked.

He used the Force, but not to try and kill the handler as he had been ordered—

It wouldn’t even work, he knew it, the man was too powerful, too lethal—

Instead, the lost Padawan propelled himself off the handler, flinging himself without direction or care backwards into the air, limbs flailing.

The boy smacked into the wall and fell senseless to the floor.

When he blinked himself back into proper awareness, he was greeted by a swift kick to the diaphragm which had him curling inwards, choking. A hand fisted in his overgrown haircut and dragged him backwards; Obi-Wan was slammed into the wall and then manhandled; horribly familiar hands yanked his arms behind his back and tied them together.

Obi-Wan kicked outwards and caught the handler in the nerves below his knee—the leg buckled and the handler bellowed, but kept moving, violently lashing the bindings around Obi-Wan’s wrists to a grate in the wall behind him.

Obi-Wan lay on his side, arms immobilized behind him, and kicked out again—

—his mind flashed back and forth between the blurred, semi-dark view of the rusted floor and his handler, struggling to keep him pinned—and the almost total darkness of a narrow hallway, with hands tying him with rope and stabbing a syringe into his flesh—

He screamed, the sound ripping through his dried up throat, and fought.

He felt it when he made contact—a kick, a bite at a restraining hand, a headbutt, another kick—

But none of it was enough.

The handler stomped down hard on the boy’s left ankle, and Obi-Wan screamed and fell back as he felt the bones give way.

* * *

Qui-Gon’s hands tightened on the arms of the co-pilot’s chair.

Fett kept his eyes on the transperisteel and the navcom, his dark eyes glittering as they descended towards Desevro’s atmosphere.

Other ships were coming and going, many of them from unexpected locations and with unusual haste—the sign of a planet with a thriving criminal underbelly.

“We’ll descend about two klicks outside the city,” Jango said. “I should be able to track him down within a few days, and then we’ll find out what he knows—if he knows anything, or if he’s seen your kid.”

“He has,” Qui-Gon said hoarsely.

Jango looked around at him sharply, taking in the Jedi’s white-knuckled grip on the chair, his pale face and darkened eyes. “What?”

“He has,” Qui-Gon repeated, his voice razor-thin. “He’s seen Obi-Wan—he _has_ Obi-Wan.”

“You can…?”

The Jedi nodded. “I can sense him. _I can sense him_.”

* * *

Obi-Wan could sense his handler.

He was coming.

He fought against the restraints keeping him tied to the grate in the wall, he kicked out his uninjured leg, trying to get it underneath him, to stand—or at least kneel—

The handler was racing towards him, he could sense the power of the Force—he was so strong, like _fire_ —

“ _Little one_ ,” that familiar voice was hissing, and the strong hands were on his shoulders again—

Obi-Wan’s fear overcame him after six weeks of resistance.

The Force _exploded_ around him like a plasma bomb.

The bindings around his wrists shattered to dust.

The man holding onto him was blasted backwards, unconscious -

-and Obi-Wan watched in total bewilderment as Qui-Gon Jinn crashed into the opposite wall with a sickening crack before collapsing to the floor—where he remained, motionless, the ghost of his touch on Obi-Wan’s shoulders suddenly burning like a brand.


	7. Chapter 7

The handler exploded through the side door, a blaster in one hand and Obi-Wan’s lightsaber in the other. Another figure—with a strangely similar set of armor and a T-visor helmet—crashed through the main door, already standing open—and immediately launched himself at the handler with a battle yell.

Obi-Wan remained where he was, kneeling on his one good leg, his unbound hands hanging loose by his sides.

Staring at Qui-Gon, lying limp against the wall, his long hair hanging over most of his face.

Blaster fire and saber humming burst out from the other end of the large room, causing a boggling fireworks show of red and blue light. It only illuminated the scene more and more.

Obi-Wan heard himself gasp.

He lurched to his feet, gritting his teeth as his ankle burned with hot, dizzying pain—pain, unless it was a punishment, meant nothing to him. He had been trained to overlook pain.

(Had that been a Jedi teaching, or a lesson from the handler? He couldn’t remember.)

Obi-Wan put his good foot forward and began limping across the room; every drag of his injured leg sent white sparks across his already blurred vision, but he didn’t stop, fixated on the unconscious figure he had— _he had attacked_.

Blue and red light danced in the darkness. There was yelling, grunts of pain, but Obi-Wan’s eyes remained on the Jedi Master.

And then—Master Jinn groaned and lifted his head. His hair fell away from his pale face, and with a moan he pushed himself up onto one elbow, turning onto his side to view the room with a confused expression. The familiar eyes scanned the room, drawn first to the battle going on at the far end.

And then to Obi-Wan.

His eyes widened. Qui-Gon pushed himself into a crouch, and held out his arms, as if he wanted Obi-Wan to rush into them.

Obi-Wan…stopped.

 _Danger_ , his instincts were screaming, _danger danger powerful Force-user, kill it if you have to, kill it before it kills you, danger danger danger_

 _It’s your Master_ , something else inside him wailed. _It’s Master Qui-Gon, he came for you, he came for you, he didn’t leave you_

His head felt strange. Had he hit it? Or was he just being slow?

Dark. Light. Red. Blue. Qui-Gon—injured— _by_ Obi-Wan—arms held open—

It took too long for Qui-Gon’s warning shout to register.

By the time Obi-Wan understood, it was too late.

The handler came out of nowhere and tackled him, and once again Obi-Wan’s instincts and terror kicked in.

He resisted, bucking in the sudden hold, and found an armored arm suddenly crushing his throat and pinning him to his handler’s chest. Obi-Wan immediately swung his elbow down into the soft flesh above the handler’s right hip, where he knew there was no armor. When the man buckled, leaning into his bruised hip, Obi-Wan swung his other arm up to the side and clipped the handler in his left cheek.

The arm loosened, and Obi-Wan yanked himself away—only to be caught again, this time the handler’s hand clawing around his face and dragging him back into another tight hold.

One of the handler’s hands was pressed over his face, half-suffocating him, nails digging into his skin; the other arm was wrapped around his middle and holding a blaster to his ribs.

Qui-Gon was on his feet, looking winded but calm, his lightsaber humming in his hands. The other man, the one with the same kind of helmet as the handler, was standing next to the Jedi, now holding just one blaster and looking pissed even without his face visible. 

Obi-Wan struggled underneath the hand, hungry for air and angry at himself.

“Let him go,” said the man with the blaster.

The handler laughed, his hand tightening on Obi-Wan’s face. “Don’t be stupid, Fett, give up my best advantage? He’s part hostage, part half-honed weapon. A few more weeks, he would have been a perfectly poised Jedi-killer! Months from now, an assassin in the making, so full of power and rage he couldn’t see straight! Let him go? _Let him go?!_ ” He sounded out of control, somewhere between hysterical and scathing.

Obi-Wan was suffocating. His head was spinning; he could still see the flashing red and blue light even though the fighting had stopped, leaving the room in shadows, save for the brilliance of one green lightsaber.

“At least let him breathe,” Qui-Gon said quietly. “If you kill him then we all lose.”

The handler didn’t let go of Obi-Wan, who despite himself was beginning to thrash uselessly in the iron grip.

“You’re right,” the handler replied. “Which is why you’re going to let me leave, _with_ the boy, before he runs out of air.”

It was getting harder to concentrate. His vision was so, so blurry—the lights were fading, even though they weren’t real—and all that was keeping Obi-Wan in the moment were the three Force signatures burning around him.

“ _No_ ,” said Fett.

Fett’s signature was more muted, cool and hard like tarnished silver or steel. The handler, as always, was like fire, uncontrolled but sputtering, weak and strong and weak and strong.

“Well then,” growled the handler. “I guess we’ll wait until we’ve ‘all lost,’ and then settle this by hand.”

Qui-Gon’s was steady and bright, like sunlight on a clear summer day on a clean-atmosphere planet. Warm.

Obi-Wan was about to pass out.

So he made a choice, one last, conscious decision—

One in direct defiance of the training that had been controlling him for six weeks now.

He pushed back hard at his fear, at the panic that his body was falling into as he was suffocated, pushed back at the handler, and for the first time in over a month—he unfurled his tightly wound, muffled Force presence, and struck out at the handler with all the strength he could summon up.

And for the second time in less than ten minutes, Obi-Wan sent someone flying.

And once again, it wasn’t the handler. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the finale!


	8. Chapter 8

Obi-Wan felt the Force surge through him, hot and dazzling and comforting—how could he have forgotten how that felt?

And he flew forwards, ripped out of the handler’s strangling hold at blinding speed—

—directly into the arms of Qui-Gon Jinn.

The Jedi had not been expecting it, but he reacted immediately, dropping into a protective crouch with Obi-Wan in his arms and raising his lightsaber to defend them.

Fett was a little slower. But as soon as he realized what had happened, he sprang at the handler, knocking the blaster from his enemy’s hand. The handler howled in rage and jumped on Fett, struggling for the one remaining blaster.

Qui-Gon watched them for a few moments, then spun around so that his back was to the fight, shielding Obi-Wan with his body from any shots that might be fired in their direction. Obi-Wan was deposited on the floor, but warm hands grabbed his elbows, keeping him upright and close.

The boy blinked upwards, dazed.

His ankle was still on fire, and he knew he must have hurt his arm and his head at some point recently—though at the moment he couldn’t remember how—because they all throbbed with intense pain. But Obi-Wan ignored it.

Much more interesting to him was Qui-Gon, holding onto his arms and observing him just as keenly.

It was funny. Obi-Wan had forgotten exactly what his Master looked like, without realizing it, and seeing the million little details he had not been able to picture over the past six weeks was the most wonderful thing he had ever felt.

One thing was new.

Qui-Gon’s deep blue eyes were brimming with emotion—concern, relief, fear, compassion—

“Are you all right?” he demanded.

Obi-Wan nodded without bothering to think about it. “…Yes.”

The blue eyes crinkled with exasperated amusement. “No, I don’t think you are.”

Obi-Wan ignored that, peering over the tall man’s shoulder to see Fett quite literally throttling the handler with his bare hands. “Umm…Master, shouldn’t we help?”

“Ah, well,” Qui-Gon said. “I did promise my friend that he could take care of Montross, after we got you back.”

“Montross,” Obi-Wan echoed, watching as the handler’s face turned purple and then vanished as Fett hurled him to the ground. “Oh.”

“He gave you a different name?” asked Qui-Gon gently.

Obi-Wan swallowed thickly; he could feel tears building in his eyes and blinked them away furiously. “…He said I could address him as ‘Master’ or ‘Handler.’ I…went with ‘handler.’”

A small noise escaped Qui-Gon—a huff, or a slight gasp. Before Obi-Wan could move, the Jedi had swept him back into his arms, this time into a hug—a real, actual hug.

Obi-Wan stiffened.

Force presence. Force presence, and he was unshielded, completely open—

Qui-Gon understood at once and his warm-sunshine-glow dimmed to a glimmer of starlight, still warm but not overwhelming. His arms held Obi-Wan close, but not so close that he felt suffocated.

Even with the sound of Fett beating Montross to a pulp in the background, Obi-Wan felt himself relax a little.

And then a lot.

Obi-Wan buried his face into Qui-Gon’s robes and burst into tears. Qui-Gon began talking in a low, soothing tone, but Obi-Wan’s exhaustion and injuries seemed to catch up with him all at once, and with a shuddering gasp, he let go.

* * *

There was a hand carding softly through his hair.

Obi-Wan blinked. The room came into focus gradually, telling him that he had been deeply asleep—or unconscious—for a while. He was on his back on a narrow cot, staring at a very low, metallic ceiling. Muted amber lights reflected off the metal.

A gentle Force probe ran across his mental shields.

Warm, and soft. A summer’s day.

“Master,” Obi-Wan said hoarsely. 

“Obi-Wan,” the warm voice replied, and the hand in his hair paused briefly. “How do you feel?”

Well that was…an interesting question.

_How did he feel?_

His throat was sore, his chest felt tight. His left ankle was heavy with tightly wound bandages and somewhat numb, probably from some sort of injected pain reducer. His head felt similarly.

Having his shields so low made his heartrate speed up uncontrollably, and being around another Force sensitive that he’s not supposed to be trying to kill…

“Fine,” he said. “I’m all right.”

There was a sigh from beside the cot. Obi-Wan turned his head and found Qui-Gon sitting in a chair beside his bed, still stroking his hair and looking back at him with compassion. His face was half in shadow in the dim, night-lit room, but his eyes were still swirling with all those emotions from before.

Speaking of before—“What happened?”

“Hm,” Qui-Gon said. “Well, Fett took care of Montross. The Senate and Fett struck a deal. The Republic gets all of Montross’ things, his contacts and information, so that justice can be served. Fett gets Montross.” He paused, studying his Padawan’s face. “…I promise you, the man is gone.”

“Okay.”

Qui-Gon’s brow creased. “Okay?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Yeah. Can I go back to sleep?” He turned his gaze to the wall.

His Master stared.

“…No, actually. The med droid needs to check you while you’re conscious, and you can’t take any drugs that will put you under until we confirm your bloodstream is clear of other compounds.”

“Oh.”

There was a strained silence, during which Qui-Gon continued to run his hand through Obi-Wan’s hair steadily. Something passed over the Jedi Master’s face.

“Obi-Wan,” he said, his brogue thicker than usual. “Will you look at me, please?”

The ginger boy’s hands curled into the sheets, but that was the only sign he gave of having heard. His eyes were fixed on the wall.

Qui-Gon felt a sharp pang inside his chest.

He took a deep breath and started to talk. “Obi-Wan…I’m so glad to have you back. I…I can’t apologize enough for leaving you alone on Orinda, for not making it back to you in time.”

Obi-Wan stiffened again, the lines of his body hardening as he stared harder than ever at the wall.

Qui-Gon forced himself to keep going. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to find you more quickly. We worked as hard as we could to discover where you were, and it still took too long—and I…I have been very afraid, Obi-Wan.” His voice grew rough. His free hand came up to rest lightly on the wrist of one of Obi-Wan’s clenched fists. “I have been afraid of many things these past several weeks. I know you’re not ‘fine.’ _Please_ —look at me?”

Finally, the apprentice obeyed. He turned his head on the pillow to look Qui-Gon directly in the face, and Qui-Gon was alarmed to see the barely-restrained tears in the blue-green eyes, and the pain and shame radiating from them.

“Obi-Wan—” he started, fearfully.

“You don’t want me _back_ , do you?” Obi-Wan burst out, his voice still hoarse and thin. “I ruined it. I messed up; I didn’t stick to the Code, I wasn’t strong enough or smart enough or aware enough to defend myself, and I let my handl—the—I let him get inside my head, I _hurt_ you!”

The air rushed out of Qui-Gon's lungs.

Qui-Gon’s hand tightened on Obi-Wan’s wrist. “ _What?_ Of course I want you back! Obi-Wan, I searched nonstop for you for six weeks, and I would have kept going if I needed to—you are my Padawan, Obi-Wan, I—” He stopped, completely lost for words.

Obi-Wan did not look as if he believed him. His small face pinched up with distress, but he was very obviously trying to control his breathing. It only made his throat burn more.

“But I did everything wrong,” he rasped. “I did _everything_ _wrong_ , and I keep crying, and breaking down like a youngling. I’m supposed to be a Jedi! I thought—I thought I could be, but—whatever is _wrong_ with me that got me kicked out early—I don’t know what it _is_ or how to _fix_ it, but it’s…”

The boy looked like he was on the verge of falling apart—again—and he tugged his hand away from Qui-Gon, but Qui-Gon grabbed it back. The Master removed his hand from Obi-Wan’s hair and pressed it to the boy’s cheek, keeping his face turned towards his, their foreheads almost touching.

“Listen to me,” Qui-Gon said. “There is nothing _wrong_ with you. You are no more or less flawed than any other being, especially someone your age. The delay in your apprenticeship is down to Yoda’s scheming and my own issues with myself and Xanatos. You have overcome many faults of your own, I’ve seen it.”

“But—”

“ _Listen_ ,” he insisted. “You are meant to be a Jedi, you _are_ a Jedi. You’ve barely had four months of training. No one would expect you to be ready to defend yourself at the same level as a Master. You survived a kidnapping, slavery, and weeks of fear conditioning and abuse, Obi-Wan, and I am incredibly proud, and so, _so thankful_.”

His Padawan stared at him in astonishment. It was a relief to see color returning to his cheeks, even if it was from surprise and emotion.

“I told you,” Qui-Gon continued, feeling his own voice shake, “that I was afraid. I wasn’t afraid because I think you’re weak, Obi-Wan. I was afraid because I have seen too much of the galaxy to trust it with you all alone, and because I know _you_. You’re strong, and compassionate, and so full on light and conviction—I was afraid that someone would try to break all of that, and you…you would resist.”

He stopped as both of them reflected on that for a second.

“…That is exactly what happened. I was terrified because I didn’t want to be a Jedi Master without my Padawan, without _you_. If…if you truly believe that being a Knight isn’t the right path for you, I will let you go. But I was afraid someone would take you away from us, take your dreams from you. I’m still afraid of that.”

He rubbed Obi-Wan’s cheek with one thumb.

“Do you believe me?” Qui-Gon asked him.

Obi-Wan bit his lip briefly.

“No…” he whispered. “But I want to stay. With the Order. And you. If you’re sure—”

Qui-Gon pulled Obi-Wan into a hug.

And that was answer enough for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fin. <3


End file.
